New Beginning
by Rurouni Tyriel
Summary: [XMen 3: The Last Stand] The cure is not perfect. The War is not yet over.


**Disclaimer: **

I don't own the X-Men, they belong to other people. I wish I owned the X-Men, then I could make Ororo into my love-slave.

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**Summary: **

The cure is not perfect. The War is not yet over. Set just after the events of '_X-Men: The Last Stand_.'**MAJOR SPOILERS**.

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"Secretary Trask?"

Secretary of Defense Trask barely acknowledged the secretary in front of him, still scribbling down his expense reports on the desk in front of him.

"Secretary Trask?"

"I heard you the first time," he replied, still not looking up. "What is it?"

"Sir we've had a breakout..." she started.

"... I am hardly the one to come to for that sort of thing. Talk to Daniels, he's in charge of security."

"Sir, it's Raven."

_That _got his attention, and his head snapped up, dark eyes wide with fear. "That's... that's not possible," he said, rising. "She hasn't... she can't... she can't shapeshift anymore, how did she get out?"

"We're not sure sir... please... come quickly..." she said, gesturing towards the nearby door. Bolivar Trask barreled past her, then froze in the doorway as he peered out at the lobby before his office, where his secretary worked.

Both of his security guards were dead. Their necks snapped, they had lay slumped against the wall. But that wasn't the worst of it.

His secretary also lay dead... in front of him.

And behind him.

His body reacted before his mind fully caught up with the situation, but she was a lot faster, and slammed her fist into his head with the force of a battering ram, then followed up with a vicious roundhouse kick that send him flying through the air and then crashing to the ground. Bolivar Trask was unconscious before he even hit the floor.

His secretary, a lovely, dark-skinned woman who'd recently taken to dying her hair a vibrant blonde, smirked wickedly as she stood upright, her movements unnaturally fluid. With practiced ease, her body ripped like a mirage in the heat, dark blue eyes turning golden and reptilian, vibrant blonde hair shortening, turning a deep crimson. Her clothes vanished into the pores of her skin, replaced by a minimum of black scales that gave her a bare sense of modesty against her sleek, blue figure.

She was Mystique... reborn.

Wasting no time, the shapeshifter shoved aside her previous look-alike, the secretary, knocking her out of her chair and onto the floor. She needed to work quickly before Trask came to. Her fingertips flying over the keyboard, she hacked into the Defense programs, into classified files, into the Mutant containment measures and all of their most covert, secret information.

And then she downloaded it.

All of it.

A little floppy disk in the palm of her blue hand held it all. Including the information on all the mutants involved at the battle on Alcatraz. She'd heard what had happened from the guards, of course. Just because they'd thought her human and because she'd given them info on Magneto didn't mean they'd trusted her. She was still a wanted criminal, Raven Darkholme.

Didn't matter anymore though.

The cure didn't work. Not fully... not for very long. Only a week after it had been in her system, a week after she'd been betrayed, it had started to abate... started to fade. She'd started to resume her old appearance. Fortunately she'd always been a practiced deceiver. A trickster. She'd known to keep her re-emerging powers secret. And in the meantime, the guards had grown slack. Her own people had abandoned her, and she had no power. She was helpless.

She'd enjoyed breaking each and every one of their necks.

But she had something special in store for Magneto.

Standing, Mystique's body rippled again, and her form became stout, dark-skinned and bald, a perfect replicate of the Secretary of State lying on the ground. Walking briskly out the doors, she slipped the disk into the pocket of her crisp business suit, and strolled out of the building without so much as a single alarm raised.

Magneto would pay for abandoning her. No one crossed Mystique.

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It was a brave new world out there, thought Logan.

And I still can't find a decent cigar in this whole swanky mansion.

Grumbling to himself, Logan stepped outside onto the terrace, content in finding a little peace in nature if he couldn't find a beer or cigar. Uniforms and military-grade jet aside, this place was still a school, and it was run tight as any private school Logan had ever seen. No alcohol, no drugs, no 'hanky-panky'. Professor Xavier had been a kind man but he was always stern when it came to the rules. And Ororo was keeping up the same traditions in honor of his memory.

Such thoughts guided Logan's gaze over to the grounds where the headstones lay, where good friends lay in peaceful sleep. Much as he missed them, sometimes he envied them as well... sometimes, he half wondered if he could ever die, would ever know that same kind of peace. It wasn't exactly a comforting thought.

As always, thoughts of his age always brought about the question of his past as well, and he idly reached down, rubbing his hand against his knuckles. He could feel them... feel his claws... waiting to spring forth.

And now, with Xavier gone, both of the men who might've had an answer for him were gone.

He'd lost his past. He'd lost his present. He'd lost his future. No, he'd _killed_ his future. Lesser man might've broken down and cried.

Logan though, he was different. He'd thought once he'd been to hell... a hell of knives and scalpels, of devils who looked like doctors who'd cut him open and put adamantium in his bones. But now, this, this suffering... this was real hell.

He just bottled it all up and pushed it to the back of his mind. All the anger, all the rage, all the frustration. Save it for the next Danger Room session.

Or re-match with Victor Creed.

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It moved.

Only a little, but it moved.

Eric Magnus Lensherr had lived through some of the darkest times of Earth's history. As a boy, he'd learned long ago that hope was a delusion, a trick that could lead you to your doom if you followed it. Long ago he'd squelched hope, crushed it, become pragmatic and simple, and seen the world for how it was.

Yet now… he could not help but feel hope… just a little… blossom in his heart.

Idly, he glanced out the corner of his eyes if anyone saw him. No, none had… they had all been busy with their own games, their own lives. Normal lives. Normal people. And he'd been one of them.

Idly, he reached into his coat, rummaging about for some change. He didn't have much, but then again it wasn't a surprise. He'd been very fortunate, or so some would think. He'd been granted a full pardon by the President of the United States himself, allowed a place in a retirement home. After all, he was safe now. Harmless. He'd lost the spark of life, he was no threat to anyone.

Or was he?

Idly he turned over his hand, coin in his palm. And the coin stuck to his skin as he held it over the ground.

Only a little. It was taking all his concentration to keep the penny in place… but it would return. It would grow.

He was sure he wasn't the only one either. Those who had been 'cured' during the Alcatraz attack would be restored as well, their powers intact (assuming they were still alive, of course). The gears in his head immediately began turning again. He could organize them. Unite them. The war was not yet over. Just because this cure had failed did not mean the humans would not try again. They would never be satisfied until the mutant population was wiped out completely.

He refused to let that happen.

Returning the coin to his pocket, content to wait while he planned, he reached out a hand and picked up the black knight piece, sliding it forward and to the side, knocking over the white king in the process.

"Check-mate."

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"Son, please…"

"No dad. I've made my decision."

The elder Worthington, gray-haired and pale (and with considerably more gray hairs and paleness after his brush with death) stood in the doorway. His son, Warren Worthington the III, was packing his things in a suitcase. He was only taking the one, leaving a lot of his possessions behind.

Leaving his life behind.

"Son, I'm sorry if I… if it seemed like I was trying to force this cure on you… you know your mother and I only had your best intentions at heart…"

"No you didn't," spat the younger Worthington. "You only cared about the family image. About the Worthington name. About the company. Couldn't very well let a mutie run it, could you?"

"Son, please, understand… I…"

"No," said Warren angrily, slamming the suitcase shut and yanking it up as he started to storm out, intent on going through his father if he stood in his way. The elder Worthington wisely stepped aside, but he called out as Warren stormed down the hallway.

"I'm grateful."

Warren stopped in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder at his father. "What?"

"Son… you saved my life… you had no reason to, and… you still did it. If I'm grateful for nothing else, I'm grateful for that."

"Dad…"

"I've halted production of the cure, son. The serum is no longer being manufactured. I… I was wrong."

Warren blinked his blue eyes in surprise. He'd never heard his father talk like this. He was usually so… so stubborn… so firmly convinced he was right. It had scared him as a kid, so that when the growths dad first started, he'd been so terrified he'd tried to tear them clear out of his back. And now…

"I was wrong, Warren. I… you… you have an incredible gift. And you've chosen to use it for good. You don't need to leave home… you can live here. We can be family again… real family again."

Tears stung Warren's eyes, but he blinked them away. "I can't dad… I promised… I was gonna help manage the Xavier estate's funding… with Professor Xavier gone Ororo and Logan don't know the first thing about accounting and… and I want to be part of their school. I want to make a difference there. The X-Men make a real difference dad."

The elder Worthington made one final, desperate plea, stretching out his hand as if he could catch his son and hold him there. "Please don't…"

"I have to."

Warren Worthington Jr., businessman and father, knew when he'd lost, and reluctantly lowered his hand, sighing. His son was a man now, and he could make decisions for himself. "Keep in touch," he said, determined not to let him go all together.

To his surprise, Warren dropped his suitcase and rushed forward, giving his father a quick hug. "E-mail twice a day," he promised, smiling, before he grabbed up his suitcase and made his way down the hallway and into the living room. This puzzled his father, who followed after him. The door was down the hall to the other side. What was…?

And then he saw his son's intent. The wide windows of the living room, slid open, easily the size for an adult male to climb out. His heart climbed up into his throat, skipping a beat as his son launched himself out, and he ran to the window, only to see his son's angelic wings spread and catch an updraft, yanking him heavenwards as he soared off into the horizon.

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Bobby's hand touched Rogue's, and nothing happened.

She was cured.

"Marie…" he began. Her finger cut him off, pressing against his lips.

"No, Bobby, just listen… ah did this because ah wanted to… not because of us. Ah… ah know how you feel… and after some thought, ah think ah know how I feel too. We just… we're not meant for one anothah."

He nodded numbly. Sure, he'd half expected this to happen sooner or later, partly because of what she'd said, partly because he just couldn't sit still in a single relationship just yet. He knew and hated that part of himself, but he couldn't do much about it. Still, it hurt to end his relationship with Rogue. She'd been… special.

Rogue removed her finger, but smirked playfully as she stood from the bed and moved up real close before Bobby, who leaned back in surprise.

"But ya'll owe mae for bein' ya girlfriend for ovah a year," she said playfully. And before Bobby could react, she leaned in and sealed her lips against his. Stunned, he couldn't offer up a single response or reaction of any variety until long after she'd broken the kiss and walked out of the room… sashaying her hips playfully as she did so.

Bobby could only stare, his brain still trying to catch up with what had just happened.

Once outside of the room, Rogue stifled a girlish giggle and rushed to the room next door, slipping inside whereupon she found herself in the company of the bald little mutant boy known as Leech. He gave a little smile as she entered.

"It worked?" he asked, stepping away from the wall he'd been leaning against.

"It worked beautifully! Thank you so much Jimmy," she said, giving him a hug which made his pasty-white skin go flushed red, then skipped out of the room like Shadowcat on a sugar binge.

Jimmy smiled to himself. It was so nice here, living amongst other mutants. And especially, having a room next to Rogue's… he had a feeling things were going to be wonderful in the days to come.

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Night settled over the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters, as Ororo and Logan made their rounds, making sure the kids were all in their rooms with lights out. Kids learned long ago there was no fooling Wolverine, he could smell if someone was still up. Hear people shift in their beds, pretending to be asleep. So not many were willing to break curfew unless Logan was away on one of his trips.

Ororo had settled in for the night but awoke not more than a few hours later, restless. A storm cloud was brewing overhead, threatening to bring a downpour… not her work, this time… just a natural phenomenon. But when one was a living conductor for the elements they tended to be very sensitive to such things. This would likely be another sleepless night for her.

That was alright though. She had a lot to think on anyway.

Ororo was now head of the Xavier Institute… head of the X-Men as well, though she knew Logan was a better field commander. It was up to her to carry on Xavier's dream. A world of tolerance for humans and mutants alike.

And the idea terrified her.

No, not the idea… the fact that she had to be the one. Jean and Cyclops were gone, and Wolverine, while capable, was too much of a pragmatist… he could fight the good fight against evil mutants, or even evil humans, but in the political and social arena he had as much subtlety as a bull in a china shop. She was the only original student of Xavier's left. It had to be her.

How she wished now she had someone to talk to. Kurt, maybe. He'd always had a comforting word for her before he'd left to rejoin his old traveling troupe. Or Hank, maybe, but he was busy with his duties as Ambassador.

No, she had no one to rely on at the moment. She had to be their strength. The students.

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**Author's Notes: **

Inspired by the end scene of the movie, particularily to show Mystique and Magneto's preparations to return to their old selves. Comet-hime inspired the scene with Iceman, Rogue and Leech. I never really could buy Rogue getting cured (and neither can she, of course) and that's my answer to the situation.


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